The Affair of the Awful Audition
by FlightyApprentice
Summary: Being a take-off of events from the years preceding the 'Alfred Hitchcock of the Three Investigators' mystery series, featuring Jupiter Jones.


The Affair of the Awful Audition, Pt.1

_Editor's Note: Going through this manuscript written by my employer, Joe Q. Lopp (better known as 'The Mystery Shopper'), I've tried my best to stay true to his voice and allow him to do as much of the telling of his story as possible, which any good editor does his/her best to stay out of the way as much as they can. My primary input was grammatical, or timing sequence corrections within the narrative._

_Yours, S.T. Greene_

This was to have been a great opportunity for me. My first, and as it turned out, last real big break. What had brought my mother (who was still with us at the time, bless her soul), and myself to southern California was a casting call for a new national television show of who's name and nature was still to be determined.

It was the 1950s and the boob tube was all the rage, demand for new material to air was insatiable. In those days I performed in child actor circles under the name Jay Quey. An earlier agent of mine had tried to cast me as Baby Quey (a cheap knock-off attempt of 'Baby Huey', obviously), but I was having none of it. And, consequently, he was not my agent for long thereafter. I have always been a forceful fellow.

Up to that point I had ever only worked in the east, but, as I said, this was my big chance to go national. And who knew, maybe even global. But there would be competition, and it would be fierce. A couple of my staunchest competitors for previous parts I still recall visibly to this day.

There was Li'l Tyke Ike, who was the envy of us all with his natural ability to retain his baby looks after he should have lost them to the ravages of childhood like the rest of us. Oh, I readily admit that I harbored a jealousy, as did most of our peers, that he continued to find good work that we had all outgrown.

Edmund 'Gooey Fingers' Fiskers was there as well. Kid had a candy problem something bad, as well as an unwholesome fixation with his own nose. But he could do voices like nobodies business.

And then there was Baby Fatso. Many will recall him from his later teenage career as the First Investigator of the well know trio _Alfred Hitchcock and the Three Investigators_: Jupiter Jones. But in those days his stage name was Baby Fatso, and boy oh boy, had he been a porker. Still had the baby fat when these events rolled around and would always remain a stocky figure, from what I hear.

Hey, maybe I've got no room to talk, having carried around a certain heft with me all my life. But this is my story so I'm talkin'. Button it!

In any event, he harbored a burning hatred for that sobriquet for the rest of his days. He had rocketed to fame as the three year old star of the half hour comedy serial _Wee Rogues_ (for those too young to remember, it was essentially a knock-ff of _The Little Rascals_, they even had their own Buckwheat character named Flapjack – if you can believe it), who quit the show and dropped out of sight a year later after his parents were killed in an automobile accident.

They had been professional ballroom dancers who did quite a bit of work as extras in film musicals of the period requiring dancing couples, and in which venue they had made the acquaintance of a casting director who saw the potential in baby Jupe/Fatso and ran with it.

In any event, his departure from the show was finally revealed to be due to his intense dislike for a number of his fellow Rogues who picked on him mercilessly. As it happened, his leaving caused the show to fizzle out which soon found his tormentors out of work.

Sweet revenge, that, I'm sure. But as I sat there considering the still corpulent figure of Baby Fatso (now going by the simple moniker, Jupe Jones), I couldn't help but notice the evil eye he was directing at one boy in particular across that packed waiting room, overflowing with hopefuls from all over the land as stage mothers primped and pampered their little princes and princesses.

The boy he had fixed could be none other than Bonehead, the hard boiled egg-headed numbskull whom Fatso's exit from the show sent to the unemployment line. For his part, Bonehead glared venom right back at Jupe. I swear his ears wiggled, standard fare trademark for him. How many of the other Rogues were there? I cast about, searching the faces, but a couple of years could have done a lot to change appearances. So there was no telling.

What had caused Baby Fatso to come out of retirement, I did wonder. The money? Possibly. Or, could it be that he simply missed 'It' … the fame and adulation, _the spotlight!_ My heavens, how many of us old pros from way back haven't felt the pull.

Just then, I felt another sort of pull as my gaze happened upon a dark-haired thing of beauty. Pretty Peggy, it had to be. Perhaps one of the few Rogues who had shown kindness to Baby Fatso. She was ravishing, I'd always crushed madly on her from afar. My size fed my shyness around girls, as my later friend and apprentice can attest. But at that moment, if she could have read my eyes, they would have said, 'You and I shall dance, my love'.

Yet her hoity-toity attitude, however, refused to acknowledge the contact between us and the palm of my mother's hand to the back of my head nearly caused my eyes to pop out.

Just as my cheeks took fire in utter embarrassment, I heard a shout, "Jay Quey!" That was me, I was up next.

Now, let me just give a very brief rundown of how professional auditions are typically conducted, in my experience. And this could certainly be a bit different for adults, so take that into account.

There's some posing, the actor is viewed through some lenses, under different lighting and distances, then the actor is invited to display their wares as it pertains to the part. Notice I said 'professional'. In this case, that is not what transpired.

It turns out the director himself was in house and was conducting the auditions personally. Yes, one Mr. D. R. Stancilpanse, and a greater prima donna and unorthodox *% in the directorial ranks you'd be hard-pressed to find.

Sure, he considered himself 'out there', but most just considered him a fool. The first problem I, and all the others, was going to face was … we didn't know what the parts were, we didn't even know what the show was about. And the second, "I'm afraid you'll have to wait out here," a clipboard-cradling lackey told my mother at the door to the office.

Typically stage mothers were allowed in, if they wanted, but she put on a brave face. She'd been a professional roller derby girl herself and was tough as they came.

"Knock 'em dead," she told me. Little did she know.

Having been shown into the office, I was faced by who I took instantly to be Stancilpanse sitting on the front edge of a desk, which was flanked by two more flunky assistants with clipboards. Stancilpanse was tall and gaunt, short coiffed hair and a pencil-thin mustache with eyes hidden behind shaded prince-nez.

I'd hardly entered the room before he barked, "Jump!"

I was startled, and only managed to freeze and utter, "I-"

"That is not the question," he bit off lispingly. "I do not care about your 'I'." He shifted on the desk and rubbed his chin, evaluating me, then commanded, "You are a dog."

"Woof-woof," I offered, admittedly fairly weakly.

"That is no dog!" Stancilpanse screeched shrilly, "try again. Be a frog."

"Ribbet," I tried again, then got the bright idea to hop around.

"You could not jump when I originally requested, now you do when I tell you to be a frog. What is it with you, boy?" His voice dripped scorn.

"Well, I-"

"Again with the wrong question!" He practically screamed. "You." He snapped his fingers off to his left and the lackey on that side stiffened to attention. "Give him test 3xa." The lackey flipped through some pages on his clipboard and pulled out half a sheet, marched over and thrust it at me.

I took it uncertainly, cleared my throat and looked up to Stancilpanse. "Read." And he rolled the 'r-r-r' with some menace.

"I want a tub, a tub blub, a scrub a glub-"

"Make me believe you really mean it."

"-I am a nub, and that's the rub, I'll never be anything but a dub..." I trailed off.

"There's more, yes?" I nodded, my chin jutting forward pugnaciously. "Oh, I think I've offended you, eh, boy?"

I said nothing, I would _not_ cry. "Tell you what," Stancilpanse said, though he was playing sly. I could read him by now. "Recite for me some Shakespeare."

"My kingdom for a horse." Was the first thing to come to mind.

"Oh, a horse now?" His laugh was the bark of a yapping dog. "Convince me." Not this again.

I affected to prance around in a circle as best I could, adding in a few whinnies and even a neigh.

"You are not convincing me," he growled.

I stopped, turned and glared at him, "If I-"

"Again with the wrong question." He shook his head and tsked. "One more, then. Come over here boy. Up on the desk." He unseated himself and grandly gestured towards the desktop.

Now what? I approached hesitantly, he nodded encouragement. I clambered up on top and stood up.

"Now, then, you are Superman. Fly!" He shouted. Was he out of his mind? "Take a running start and leap, boy! You can fly!"

At that point, I guess I'd just had enough. Yeah, I did exactly as he directed. Took three steps to the far corner, angled myself directly at him, and took off...

My mother was re-telling for years afterward, how Stancilpanse's two assistants carried me from the office, rigidly stretched out under their arms with my own arms extended out over my head like the Man of Steel and my hands clenched in a throat-throttling gesture.

Needless to say, I didn't get the part. For that matter, neither did Jupe, Peggy or any of the others I was familiar with. The parts went to a group of unknowns. Yet, I and some of the others, were to have our comeuppance on Stancilpanse which resulted in his being sacked from the project.

At it so happened, my mother and I had booked our hotel room for a couple extra days ahead of time, and the Jones Salvage Yard was a matter of just a few miles away … and, well, Stancilpanse had been a very _bad_ boy managing the studios money.


End file.
